


Gift, Curse—Either Way, It's Nonrefundable

by tuesday



Series: Author's Favorites [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Gen, Necromancy, Pumpkin Monsters, Pumpkins, Temporary Character Death, ToT: Monster Mash, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box, Undead, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12476984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: On the first day of Sal's quest, she was optimistic, or as optimistic as anyone in search of an honorable death could be.It was a nice fall day, the air crisp and the sky clear. Her cloak was warm, and her boots were sturdy. Her pack was fairly light on her back, even weighed down as it was with rations. Her great-axe—may her smith mother never know—made a decent walking stick. The clan's soothsayer predicted the weather would hold for the next week, at least.All in all, it looked to be shaping up to be a decent adventure.Halfway down the mountain, she fell and broke her neck.





	Gift, Curse—Either Way, It's Nonrefundable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gileonnen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/gifts).



On the first day of Sal's quest, she was optimistic, or as optimistic as anyone in search of an honorable death could be. 

It was a nice fall day, the air crisp and the sky clear. Her cloak was warm, and her boots were sturdy. Her pack was fairly light on her back, even weighed down as it was with rations. Her great-axe—may her smith mother never know—made a decent walking stick. The clan's soothsayer predicted the weather would hold for the next week, at least. 

All in all, it looked to be shaping up to be a decent adventure.

Halfway down the mountain, she fell and broke her neck.

—

On the thirtieth day of Sal's quest, she was cold, she was hungry, and she was miserable. 

Her cloak—and the rest of her clothes, besides—had been drenched in the same river she'd lost her pack. An inability to swim coupled with an aversion to water any deeper than the pond beside her mother's home ensured she did not go haring off after it. If she'd known that the crossing that last innkeeper had suggested was a set of stone steps and small boulders she was expected to hop across, she'd have doubled back for the last bridge. Her pride had convinced her to try—the innkeeper had referred to the bridge with all the derision her mentor had reserved for blunted training weapons, something meant only for small children and the weak of heart—but her pride was put aside in favor of never again having water close over her head as she clung to the slippery stone and scrabbled desperately back to the surface. 

All her food was in there? That was fine. She hoped the fish ate well. Her bedroll? She could sleep on the ground. Half her gold and the rest of her supplies? _It belonged to the river now._

That evening, she found a cave to curl up in. She congratulated herself on avoiding the poison mushrooms while foraging for sustenance (this time) and only drowning the once. A little after first moonrise, she fell asleep. A little after second moonrise, the cave's original inhabitants returned and had themselves a midnight snack.

—

Sixty days in, and Sal had died over twice that many ways. 

—

It hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time, when Sal was just a child, any death would be just as permanent for her as it would be for any other person without ready access to the spells and materials necessary for a successful resurrection. She had been a perfectly normal half-orc born to a perfectly normal mixed clan on a perfectly normal mountain. (Two mountains over was where all the necromancer towers tended to reside.) 

Up until her nameday feast, to celebrate her having completed the last of her rites of adulthood, the only things unusual about Sal were the scar spanning from just below her right cheekbone to just above her left brow (the latest reason the masters made small children use blunted weapons and punished those who tried to raid the armory early) and her eyes (one the deep black of her mother's, the other a pale grey like her father's). 

Sal's human grandmother, visiting from two mountains over in honor of her granddaughter's big day, was unimpressed. Not a big fan of normality, Sal's human grandmother. Probably why she lived on Necromancer Tower Mountain.

"You can do better," Grandmama said.

"How—um, when did you get here, Mother?" Papa said.

"Why, when Petyr was your age, he'd been up and down the entire Eastern Seaboard," Grandmama said.

"Who let her past the village gates?" Nana demanded.

"Even when he retired, he went on to marry someone of another race entirely and have beautiful little half-orc, half-human grandbabies for me to spoil," Grandmama said.

"No one invited you," Mama said.

"Not that your parents helped with that," Grandmama sniffed.

"Out, foul sorceress," the soothsayer demanded before succumbing to nerves and spending the next three days huddled under their bed.

"No, they had to spoil you instead, and in the worst possible way. Normal! What's the world coming to, I say," Grandmama said.

"Grandmama, Grandmama, did you bring candy this time?" Vasha said, having escaped Nana's grasp and both attempts by their parents to corral her.

"Yes, dearie, and some books, but first, I have a gift for your sister," Grandmama said.

"Maybe I don't want your gift," Sal said, but Grandmama ignored her as thoroughly as she had Sal's elders.

"Or mayhap it's more accurately called a curse," Grandmama said. "But I'll give it, and you'll accept it, all the same."

Unfortunate as it was and with little other choice, Sal did.

And that's when the shouting really began.

—

The first time Sal died was shortly after Grandmama's gift. In all the excitement, someone accidentally shoved her into one of the big bonfires. (In truth, Sal still wasn't sure it was an accident. Ever since the armory-raiding incident, Melith had it out for her, like it was Sal's fault he fell asleep on guard duty.) Fire, she found, was her least favorite way to die.

"Are you sure," she asked the innkeeper, seventy-three days into her quest, "that it's not a frost dragon?"

"It set Emma's farm afire before it stole Bartram's lucky goat," the innkeeper said flatly. "I'm sure."

Sal slumped. "Well. Point me in the direction it went."

Sal was certain fighting a huge, angry, fire-breathing dragon would count. Unfortunately, when she arrived at said dragon's roost, it was already dead. Apparently the dragon wasn't so much huge as an incredibly ambitious adolescent. Bartram's precious goat had been over half the size of the dragon's head and half again the width of its neck. The goat's back legs were, miraculously, still thrashing. Its front was stuck in the dragon's gob.

Sal laughed until she cried.

The goat gave a skull-crushing kick right in the face when she went to help pull it out. This really wasn't the sort of heroic and honorable death she'd signed up for. When she finally came to, the goat was snacking on her hair.

She kept the goat. She wasn't honorable, either, turned out.

—

On the hundredth day of her quest, Sal had resigned herself to near-constant death by hypothermia. All told, it wasn't the worst way to die. She just kept . . . drifting off. She wasn't even cold anymore.

In a distant part of herself, Sal noted that if she ever wanted to brave Cruelty's Peak again, she should probably bring better equipment and avoid attempts during the winter.

In the end, she resorted to finding a cliff and throwing herself off the mountain.

—

Springtime brought spring floods.

The less said, the better.

—

Three hundred days into her quest, Sal conquered a local group of bandits. "Conquered" because after beating half of them unconscious, the rest attempted to make her their queen. 

"Just—go live in peace. Stop robbing people. Be farmers or something," Sal said.

"But surely you could use minions," one of the bandits said.

"You spared our lives. That makes you responsible for us, now," another said.

"I'm a real good cook. And I can do laundry for you, too!" chimed in a third.

"I already have a goat. That's responsibility enough!" Honestly, with all her misadventures, Sal wasn't sure how the goat had survived.

"I could pretend to be a goat," the third one said. "A goat that . . . cooks?"

"You'll hardly even know we're there," number two said.

"I refuse to learn your names," Sal said.

"That's fair," the first one said. "Last boss gave us new ones."

Bandit number four woke up and said, "Oh, hey, we're alive. Excellent. Does that make you our new boss?"

"Nooo," Sal said, but mostly to herself. It was probably hard to hear her what with her face being planted rather firmly in her hands. Couldn't they have been competent bandits? Competent bandits good enough with a blade to kill her instead? Why did she take pity on them and not slay them all where they stood? Was it too late to do so?

Bandits five and six at least were willing to swear they'd turn a new leaf and go their own way. Bandit seven said, "Thank all the gods. I never wanted to be boss, anyway."

—

Three hundred and two days in, Sal had been accidentally bludgeoned to death thirty-seven times trying to teach former bandit one how to use a hoe, lost former bandit two down a well and drowned thrice getting her out, and completely failed at getting the closest three innkeepers to take on a new cook in the form of former bandit three. Former bandit four had gotten to say, several times and with increasing glee, "Oh, hey, you're alive. Excellent. Didn't want a new boss yet."

Former bandit seven, Sal was pretty sure, was just hanging around to laugh at her. He was the only one semi-competent with a blade, and a nearby town had offered him a position with the Guard. ("His heart was never in it," former bandit number two had confided the previous night. "He only took up banditry to spite his mum. That, and I think he felt sorry for us.") Even if that didn't interest him, Sal had offered to escort him home, as the town he purported to hail from was only a few townships over.

"No, no," former bandit seven said when Sal offered again after coming back from being crushed by a tree. "I can get back by myself if ever I want to go. I'm good here."

Then again, from the way he stared as former bandit number two stripped their shirt midway through splitting logs, he may have had other reasons, too.

—

Three hundred and thirty-two days into her quest, Sal shed some of her excess baggage. Former bandit number seven's hometown apparently had need of a second baker, and former bandit two convinced seven that three needed looking after.

"For the sixtieth time, my name is Rence," said former bandit number seven. "And that's Rey, and that's Snow-face."

"My name really is Rey," said former bandit number two, "but Rence hates Snow-face's real name."

"Snow-face is my name now," former bandit number three said serenely, "unless my new boss wants to change it again."

"Which one? Sal, who can't be bothered, or the mayor?"

"The owner of the bakery," former bandit number three said, even as seven continued, "Because I have to warn you, I grew up with him, and he is terrible with names, and I guarantee it would be awful."

"Worse than Snow-face?" former bandit four asked.

Sal was glad to be shut of them. She wouldn't miss them at all.

"Chin up," former bandit four said as she slung an arm over Sal's shoulders. "You still have us."

"Speak for yourself," former bandit one said. "Soon as I master the plow, I'm going to be a farmer. And I only killed the boss _twice_ today."

"Get over yourself," former bandit four said. "I meant the goat."

—

Three hundred and sixty days into the quest, Sal discovered a new enmity for pumpkins. 

"I've changed my mind," said Gavin, formerly known as former bandit number one. "I don't want to be a farmer."

Sal was swallowed whole by a pumpkin monster for the fourth time. As it was more pumpkin than monster, this was more an inconvenience than anything. She kicked a hole in its . . . stomach? . . . and crawled out to fight on.

Verity ("Seriously, you can keep calling me Four, I really don't care") gave a tiny shriek of a war cry and threw herself bodily on one of the smaller ones. She was terrible with a sword, but good enough at a crushing belly flop.

When it was all over bar bathing and trying to get the pumpkin slime and seeds out of her hair, Sal said, "We killed a pumpkin army for this field. You are going to be a farmer, and you'll like it."

"But I've been scarred for life," Gavin said.

Sal dropped her axe and glared. " _You are going to be a farmer_."

"I'm terrified to look at anything from the squash family now!"

She picked up Gavin by his sticky, slimy shirtfront, still glaring. " _And you'll like it_."

In a much smaller voice, Gavin said, "Yes, ma'am." Then, "Could you let me down now?"

—

A full year into her quest, Sal was still undying—or rather, dying over and over and over again.

"And you're stuck this way until you've found an honorable death?" Verity asked, poking that night's campfire and sending a spray of sparks into the air.

"That's what Grandmama said." Sal leaned into Verity's side. The goat sprawled at her feet.

"And you'll resurrect the once from that?"

". . . Probably."

"If you don't know, then why would you risk it?"

"You can only drown in the same pond so many times before you go off in search of more interesting ways to die." Sal still thought Mama should have filled the damn thing in, no matter that avoiding the pond made it a hundred times more likely that Sal was beheaded in sparring practice.

"Huh." Verity absentmindedly petted one of Sal's braids as she stared into the fire. Then, "What does a woman like your grandmother consider honorable, anyway?"

Sal had an awful thought.

"Sal?"

Sal feared if she spoke it aloud, it would come true.

"Boss?"

She broke into a cold sweat as she realized it was probably enough just thinking it.

"Sweetheart?"

(Grandmama had never believed in honor.)

"I may have to kill my grandmama or die trying."

"You're never going to get uncursed, are you?"

Grandmama was probably a lich in addition to witch and necromancer. The last person who'd tried to attack her—and that was more a subtle prod toward the village gates than an actual attack—had spontaneously caught fire. The last person who'd sincerely tried to kill her was still around, but only because she made his undead corpse carry her luggage. 

The only time Sal tried to attack her, in an ill-conceived attempt to initiate a spar with the scariest person she knew, Grandmama had laughed in Sal's face and put her in time out. Time out consisted of being stuck in one of the more comfortable, rather lavishly appointed dungeons Grandmama kept below her tower. Her only companions had been the adventurers-cum-servants who'd attended Sal's every need and told her that said servitude was what came of attacking someone who so highly outclassed you. Sal suspected a similar outcome if she tried any time soon.

"I'm doomed."

Verity grinned. "I'll never need a new boss at this rate."

Sal pushed at Verity's shoulder in retribution. Verity pushed back. Somehow, in the ensuing scuffle, Sal ended up in the fire.

—

One thousand and fifty-two days into her quest, Sal returned home with her new wife to attend Vasha's nameday coming-of-age feast. 

"You came! I'm so excited! You made it! What did you bring me?" Vasha demanded in a fast, high-pitched chatter.

Verity took a step back. One thousand and fifty-two days were not enough to make Sal forget her sister. She sighed and reached into the goat's travel bags. In her distraction, she missed Grandmama's arrival.

"Favored grandchild!" came Grandmama's voice from behind her. "I come bearing gifts!"

"Yesssssss!" said Vasha.

"No," Sal told the goat, refusing to turn around. "Please, no."

"I see that you have been dabbling in the only arts that matter," Grandmama said.

"You said you warded the house against her," Mama said accusingly.

"I approve, and in addition to an apprenticeship—"

"Like that's ever worked," Papa said.

"—I've also brought you minions—"

"Is that—is that a horde of ghouls?" Verity said.

"—and the materials to push yourself to greater heights—"

"Are they _all_ carrying presents???" Vasha said.

"—as well as a few other items every young woman needs."

"Your grandmother's awesome," Verity said.

Sal could feel Grandmama's attention, sudden and terrible.

"What's this?" 

Grandmama's oppressive presence drew closer. Sal's attempts to wish it away ended in failure. 

"Is this goat _stolen_?" Grandmama sounded approving.

Giving up, Sal turned around. "Rescued. Dragonslayer was rescued, not stolen."

"And you—" Oh no, Grandmama was looking at Verity now. "She stole you, too, didn't she?"

"Hey! _She_ asked _me_ to marry _her_!"

Verity grinned, not realizing the danger of Grandmama's attention. "Beat up my last boss and stole his whole gang," Verity confirmed. "Of course, she managed to lose all the others not long after."

"Careless," Grandmama sniffed. "But still. One could make the argument that you've gotten almost interesting, my dear."

"Yes, stack them neatly!" Vasha said in the background. "And then, I'm going to _roll_ in them."

"Does that—does that mean you'll remove the curse?" Sal dared to hope.

Grandmama laughed. "Of course not. Why discourage progress?"

"Can you at least change it so I die less often?" Sal tried.

Grandmama laughed and laughed.

—

Four thousand days into the quest, and Sal had come to accept she was stuck this way.

"Chin up," Verity said. "Ask nice, and when I die, I'm pretty sure your sister will turn me into a zombie."


End file.
